This morning Mirella brought beautiful, hardy plants in a wine crate shaped like a rainbow. A rainbow with winged words ~Blue Loon Winery~ flying out of a pot of gold. Mirella has a green thumb. Perfect petals and shiny leaves. I have a black one. Except with cactus living year-round at the edges. Guardians of the ground they survey. Lonesome, reclusive, and sharp. Later, with our hands in the potting soil I ask Mirella, "...do you think it's a reflection of our characters?" "Hahaha," she says. "You look too much into things."

"You are never alone," he says, "I'm holding your heart out of harms way." His gaze slides down the face of every wave. Or catches in the rear-view mirror on the closed fire road home. Suddenly flooded with astral light. The moon, a bright sickle above them.

Coming back through the bike trails yesterday, we stumble upon each other, the first copperhead of the season. It recoiled in fear as I passed by, neither one of us wanting a closer encounter. Spring is here...

The APL Panama is anchored in open seas off the coast of Baja Mexico. Refloated at 4:40am March 10th by Edinburgh salvage master, David Stirling. The 835 foot-long container ship ran aground Christmas day inside Ensenada's harbor. Close enough to walk out and touch at low tide. The Panama's estimated worth is 50 million American dollars. Her cargo, twice that much. The salvage costs may run to 10 million. The vessel was salvaged under the time-honored "no cure-no pay" rule. Now Mr. Stirling goes home to Scotland where, "I have nothing to do with the sea."

...further south down the Baja peninsula, curious, 35-ton California Gray whales are breaching and dancing and mating close to the pangas at Guerrero Negro. The whales were almost extinct in early 1900. Now 25 thousand make the yearly 10 thousand mile round- trip.

Drowsey Two Nose sleeps on the porch some nights. An arrangement he has with Ezekial. Zeke. Before Chloe arrived. Last night, Drowsey made it back to the yard. Well... Half in the yard and half in the gravel drive. He was down to Tinka's workin' on the Sierra when the Brock boys pulled in. About noon. They're Saturday faithfuls at the Casino. Drowsey's busted. Tapped-out. Broke. Alimony and child-support. But he's got those jugs of liquid light turnin' up all over the reservation. Chole doesn't allow them in. She's gone back to partin' her hair down the middle. Wearin' it in a braid.

The Museum at Hidden Candle Cove is closed. Where she practices cartography. Apprenticed to the magician when Durrow was cold. 600 AD. Dim stars only he could see. An Ocean. History. His gaze so grave and strange. Her smile so brazen. Through centuries. The dust of the past. Holding them in thrall.

We are squatters at the gates of Paradise tonight. Bowing our heads and folding our hands. Waiting for our cold souls warm renewal. Prayers for all who are in harms way or hurting. Father, please bless us all.

A sea story. Where they wander in mortal forgetfulness. Through trees. Conflagrant green between Puerto Vallarta and Manzanillo's azure coves. A bluff-top above Careyes. Tile roof. Sun-dried adobe. Wrap-around wrought iron fence. Stone shrine in the courtyard corner. Neptune and Poseidon conspiring again. He sits with his chin in the palm of his hand. His faceted insight spread before him. His compass and sextant close to hand. His scrolled maps rolled out on the table. "Here," he says, tapping his finger when she glances over his shoulder. He points to X in the candlelit room. The house wraps itself around them. One more night. One more day.

She walks the bike through the sandy wash. Over tracks through eucalyptus and confetti pepper trees. Pushes the heavy door open. Hurries across the scarred, hardwood floor where he's waiting by the fireside in a puddle of rain. Steam rising around him in halos. Outside, the gauze sky begins to unspool. A star falls. Some broken shards of moon. His destiny. His quiet wreath of reverie. "Don't fix it," he says, "it's broken the right way."